


Closure

by ScriptrixDraconum



Series: Steel and Roses [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blight, Darkspawn, Death, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 22:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptrixDraconum/pseuds/ScriptrixDraconum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esmé Cousland receives the closure her and Alistair both needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closure

Following our brief almost-sexual encounter, Alistair and I reined in our relationship a bit, still spending time together, but not touching. He never broached the topic of his virginity, nor did I press the matter. I was mostly fine simply talking with him, deepening our friendship. Mostly fine. I slept alone at night, and was therefore able to release some pent-up tension on my own. Some. The need to know why Alistair wanted to remain chaste was far greater than my need to bed him, so I waited, as calmly as possible, until he decided to tell me what was going on inside his head.

We were traveling back south when Alistair, with me ahead of the group as always, halted.

“Wait,” Alistair commanded. His forearm landed across my cuirass with a thud and he tilted his head, listening for something. He turned to me with a quizzical look and a raised eyebrow. “Do you feel them?”

“Them?” I asked, confused.

Alistair turned to watch the road again, and we waited.

And then, I felt it. “Darkspawn,” I whispered.

Alistair nodded. With his right hand, he motioned us to move forward. Each of us readied our weapons. Morrigan shared her ice magic and coated our weapons with a stinging frost.

Our group advanced warily around the bend in the road to a clearing beyond the rolling hills. Dark and light forms alike littered the ground, as did at least two ogres and half a dozen horses. It appeared as though nothing survived the battle that had taken place here, but we could sense darkspawn. _Something_ still breathed.

“Check for survivors,” I suggested to my team.

Nothing and no one I encountered was still alive. Darkspawn and human corpses alike had been slaughtered, and by the looks of the decay, the battle had taken place more than a day ago.

“Here!” Morrigan shouted.

She was standing over something, and I joined in the rush to see what she had found.

“Stand back, everyone!” I heard Alistair shout before I approached. The others obeyed, and I figured the living thing Morrigan had found was darkspawn. But when I looked down, what I saw was human. Mostly.

Pale grey skin. Dark grey veins reaching up from underneath the man’s wrecked armor.  Dead, silver-grey eyes. Red hair.

“Wait,” I breathed, and knelt before the blight-stricken shriveled husk of a human. The undead man turned his face away from me, and my gaze drifted to his armor. The cuirass looked familiar.

Realization hit me. “No…,” I shook my head, trembling but reaching out to the man before me, needing to see his face once more. “Please,” I begged the Maker, “n—“

Gilmore. My Gilmore. This was his armor, broken and covered in dried blood. This was his beautiful hair that people joked was the same color as mine, spouting rumors that we were actually related. My Gilmore. My love.

As I held the dying man’s gaunt face between my palms, I could not speak. I could not cry. Breath was a luxury I did not have in that moment. The thing that was once Ser Gilmore groaned. He attempted to raise a hand, but failed. Not thinking beyond this moment, I reached forward to grasp his far hand. I smiled at Gilmore’s pained, hollow face.

“Esmé,” Wynne whispered, “there’s no helping him.”

“There are more dying here!” Zevran shouted from afar.

“And here,” Sten’s voice boomed from my right.

“Everyone, take care of the others.” It was Wynne who gave the gentle order. “Alistair,” she spoke under her breath, “come.”

“Just a moment,” Alistair told Wynne. He knelt next to me, and gave my shoulder a tentative squeeze. “Esmé, do you want me to…?”

Sniffling, I shook my head.

And then we were alone, my Gilmore and me. Nothing but a warm, blue sky and birdsong surrounded us. I fought back tears as best I could, but several escaped, trickling down my cheeks. Gilmore groaned, or perhaps grunted, and he wacked his free hand against the small purse he had strapped to his belt. He repeated the gesture, so I untied the purse string and felt inside. Amongst a small amount of coins was a folded piece of paper. I removed the latter. The man grunted less angrily, and I assumed this was what he had wanted me to do.

 _Orders to retrieve Fergus and Esmé Cousland,_ the letter read. _Last known whereabouts of Esmé: east of Lothering. Last known whereabouts of Fergus: the Korcari Wilds._

“He’s alive!?” I asked Gilmore, who managed to close his gaping mouth briefly before letting it fall open again. I took this as a yes, even though I had no reason to do so. But then one of Gilmore’s hands gripped my arm near the elbow, and my gaze shifted from the letter back to him. His eyes, along with a sad, soft moan, pleaded with me. But what did they plead?

“Is he not alive?”

Gilmore whined.

“He _is_ alive?”

A low moan.

“He’s in the Wilds, then?”

Gilmore again closed his mouth briefly. Yes. His grip on my arm tightened.

I bent forward, leaning in closer to the infected man. If I had not been a Grey Warden, I would have had to worry about contracting the blight as well.

“Is that where you were going? To the Wilds? Do you not want me to go there?”

His hand squeezed the flesh of my arm and his lips smacked. _Don’t go_ , he confirmed.

The note was short, and there was nothing more written on the paper than the name of the man who ordered my and my brother’s retrieval. I pocketed the note and returned my attention to the man to whom I had been secretly, unofficially betrothed.

Still holding one of his hands, with my other I swept back his matted red tresses, smiling as best as my nerves would allow.

“I love you, Gilly,” I whispered. Gilmore whined, and closed his eyes.

Trembling, I reached for the dagger I kept strapped to my left boot.

 


End file.
